


they boxin' us in (but we broke out the seams)

by figure8



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Drunk Sex, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kinda?, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reunions, Secret Relationship, almost tagged this as pwp but there is PLOT this time everyone!, it's consensual but they're both inebriated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: To each other, they are images of times immemorial. Yifan tastes like possibilities and crossroads, likewhat if.--Chanyeol and Kris cross paths at a club in LA. The story should end there. It doesn’t.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a month ago on the hell birdsite i was like send me a song + a pairing i’ll write you a drabble and bee asked for face by brockhampton + krisyeol and i was like cool! this will be done in five minutes! and then i ended up writing this monster. because of the person that i am 
> 
> honestly i think this chapter stands alone as like, a ~bittersweet ending blah blah but stick around for FEELINGS i guess

**_It feels like I can see the past in your eyes_ ** **_  
_ ** **_I know the future has been passing you by_ **

 

Chanyeol spots Yifan before Yifan spots him. He’s alone, which puts him at an advantage. Yifan is surrounded by Americans, all of them laughing loudly, drunk. He recognizes one of the guys, from some music video that made it big even back home. He wonders if Yifan is working with these people, or if they’re his friends. Maybe they’re both, but Chanyeol wouldn’t bet on it. The Yifan he knew, at least, never liked mixing work and play.

Chanyeol watches him for a while, nursing his drink. In the VIP section of an already pretty select club in LA, there’s no one to bother him, so he has the time. Yifan looks good. He looks different, too. Drastically so, from the way he holds himself to the way he’s dressed. The spark in his eyes, that’s what has changed the least, but even that. He looks… more _alive,_ maybe, and something in Chanyeol’s stomach shifts uneasily at that.

He doesn’t know what compels him. Yifan gets up to use the restrooms, and a small traitorous voice in Chanyeol’s head whispers _it’s now or never._ He pushes himself off the padded leather seat of the booth he’s in hastily, pretends he’s going towards the bar. He cuts Yifan right in front of the door to the men’s room, awkwardly, eyes purposefully glued elsewhere.

Yifan’s voice is deep, just like he remembers it. “Sorry, man.” In English, light-hearted, a throwaway line, until he realizes. “Chanyeol?”

That he says deliberately, the two syllables enunciated clearly, a tint of surprise.

“Yifan,” Chanyeol says, and he wonders how he sounds to other people’s ears. To his own, his tone is shaky, but only slightly. Controlled, still.

“I go by Kris, now,” Yifan laughs nervously. “What are you doing here, man?”

“We shouldn’t be talking,” Chanyeol says, even if he’s the one who orchestrated the whole thing. His palms feel clammy.

“There’s no one around,” Yifan says. “Are you here on your own?” Chanyeol nods. “Let me buy you a drink.”

He can smell the liquor on Yifan’s breath, wonders if he would have extended the same invitation were he sober. Probably not. That’s something else Chanyeol remembers well, how alcohol had always made Yifan looser, easier to be around, less guarded.

“You’re here with friends,” Chanyeol protests, but it’s weak already.

“Those are colleagues,” Yifan shrugs. Maybe he hasn’t changed that much, after all. _We used to be colleagues,_ Chanyeol wants to tell him. _We were never friends._ You don’t catch up with colleagues.

They meet at the bar ten minutes later. Yifan orders a Whiskey Sour. Chanyeol has only had a beer, and he’s afraid of what might come out of his mouth with the help of liquid confidence, but he’s also afraid of Yifan, in general, so he lets the older man buy him a Martini. Dirty, Yifan tells the barman. Gin, two olives.

Chanyeol doesn’t know how to stop the frantic beating of his heart. “You remember.”

“It’s a good drink,” Yifan says, unreadable. “I like a man with taste.”

Six years ago, Chanyeol would have spluttered. Blushed, potentially spilled his brand new drink on himself. He’s not a baby anymore. He’s used to men trying to butter him up, knows how to spot subtle flirting—had to learn. It’s not easy being gay in South Korea. It’s not easy being an _idol,_ being _Chanyeol,_ and being—being.

The point is, Yifan is watching him intently. They haven’t talked, haven’t _seen_ each other in years, and Yifan looks like he wants to _eat_ him. Chanyeol takes a large gulp of his cocktail.

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he confesses. He hates how easy it used to be, once upon a time. Junmyeon is a good leader, always has been; but the very first years, Junmyeon didn’t know how to handle Chanyeol. Yifan did. Even after debut, when they spent weeks separated in two units, Chanyeol remembers Yifan steering him, remembers his absence just as much as he remembers his grounding touch.

“Tell me what you’re doing here,” Yifan says. “Easy start.”

“I’m on vacation. Last time I was in California was for work. I wanted to take the time to look around.”

“I’m always here for work,” Yifan offers, unprompted. “I have a house, now.”

 _I know,_ Chanyeol almost says, moron that he is. _A house, and twenty cars, and a girlfriend you write sad songs about._ “That’s cool,” he hears himself say instead. “Congrats on the album, by the way.”

One more sip of alcohol. He can do this. His body is buzzing, but it could be anything. The nerves, the gin, Yifan’s thigh pressed against his own.

“You listened to it?” Yifan beams.

“Did you listen to ours?”

Yifan turns his head away to laugh. That’s response enough, and Chanyeol starts picking at the napkin under his glass, embarrassed.

“I did,” Yifan says finally. “Sorry, this isn’t funny. It’s the situation.” Chanyeol doesn’t believe him. “You’ve gotten a lot better.”

“Implied, I was bad before?”

“You were never cut out for rapping,” Yifan says, blunt, severe. _You neither,_ Chanyeol wants to yell. It’s not exactly true. Yifan _used_ to be awful, that much is true, but there was always something there. A sort of determination, maybe; enough to turn him into the artist he is today. The man reviving hip-hop in China, the man bringing Asian urban music to the US. Chanyeol’s dream has never been to _rap,_ so he shouldn’t feel insulted, but he does. _What kind of hyung are you?_ he almost counterattacks, like he would if this was—but it’s not. They’re not.

“You said I got better.”

“Yes,” Yifan smiles, teasing. “There’s even songs that are _good._ ”

Chanyeol punches him in the shoulder, hard enough to elicit a small _oof._ It dawns on him then that it’s the first time he’s touched Yifan in six whole damn years.

“Your Korean is still good,” he remarks after a beat of silence. It’s not exactly _awkward,_ the seconds when neither one of them is speaking, but it is _charged._

Yifan shrugs. “Languages, I don’t know. I’ve always been good at them.” He licks the rim of his short glass, catches a stray drop of Whiskey. “Plus I still talk to some people.”

Chanyeol tenses, swallows down the urge to hiss, petulantly, _who, why, why not us._ He knows why, and if he’s being honest with himself, he knows who, too.

The thing is, when Yifan left, it hadn’t been a surprise, not exactly, but it _had_ been a blow. And the thing is, _really,_ the thing is that Zitao, Zitao got his angry phone call, and a passive-aggressive Instagram post. And Junmyeon got that stack of photo booth pictures he and Yifan had taken at the fair years ago, returned to him neatly in an envelope, heartbreaking and _final._ And Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo had all those texts, months after Yifan had gone, during the trial even—Chanyeol had caught a glimpse once, the bubble blue, _how are you holding up._ He remembers how furious he had felt, reading the words over and over.

The thing is, they were never friends, they were bandmates and they were _something_ and Chanyeol never got closure, has been holding his breath all this time, more or less consciously.

“At first, you know,” he tells Yifan, looking down, looking anywhere but at him, “I kept almost texting you.”

“Chanyeol,” Yifan says. His tone is—a warning, maybe. “We said we were gonna catch up, not reminisce.”

 _That_ makes Chanyeol raise his head, stare him down, irritated. “No, let me finish. That’s not fair, you don’t get to—what, buy me a drink for old times’ sake? And then pretend we what, went to school together or some shit? Grew apart?”

Yifan just stares back for a while, silent. “Okay,” he says finally. “Hit me.”

Chanyeol glares. “I kind of want to hit you for real.”

Yifan _smiles._ “Not in public.”

“But you’d let me hit you in private?” Chanyeol scoffs.

“Maybe. You’ve been working out. Maybe you can finally take me.”

Chanyeol downs the rest of his drink. “I could always take you. You were such a _loser._ ”

“Respect your elders,” Yifan shoots back immediately, and it’s evident it was said reflexively. Chanyeol looks at his empty glass. Yifan’s, too, is empty. He shouldn’t drink more, but he points it out anyway. Yifan, surprisingly, does not motion to the barman. Instead, he leans in and says, “I have a fully stocked bar at home.”

“Of course you do,” Chanyeol sighs. Baekhyun called him easy once. Not even in a mocking way—his voice full of concern. “I guess if I want a chance at punching you—”

Yifan rolls his eyes. “We should have done that since the beginning. I don’t care anymore, but I’m sure _you_ would prefer not to see pictures of you making nice with the enemy all over Dispatch tomorrow.”

Chanyeol freezes in the middle of putting on his leather jacket, one arm in, one arm out. It must look comical. “You said no one who would care was here,” he says accusingly.

“Yeah, but I guess you never know.” He holds Chanyeol’s jacket by the collar to help him finally locate the other sleeve. It’s a little bit humiliating.

 

Yifan drives a red Ferrari. It’s obnoxious and expensive, just like him. Chanyeol tells him that, and Yifan laughs.

“It’s not my favorite, actually,” he says, eyes fixed on the road, one hand on the wheel. He’s just wearing a t-shirt, shrugged off his hoodie the moment they got in the car. Chanyeol lets his eyes trail down his forearm, linger on the way one particularly prominent vein juts out. “I just take this one out when I need to impress some idiots. I got a couple of old Hondas, repaired some of them myself. If I had to pick a car that’s like, me. It’d probably be one of those.”

“That’s actually pretty cool,” Chanyeol says. Yifan huffs.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He takes a sharp turn, and the muscles in his arm tense. Chanyeol cannot tear his gaze away, mesmerized. But he has to avert his head when Yifan pulls into his driveway, stops the car, turns his full attention back to Chanyeol. “When are you leaving?” he asks as he unlocks his front door. “Don’t wanna get you smashed if you have an early flight.”

“I still have five days.”

Yifan shows him where to leave his jacket and shoes. Chanyeol’s stomach twists weirdly, and belatedly he wonders if he should have lied, said he was going back home tomorrow.

“Cool,” Yifan says, almost absently. “Living room’s that way.” He points to the large, black couch in the center of the room. The windows are full length, ceiling to floor, the decor minimalist in a way that screams interior designer. “Make yourself at home. Gin?”

Chanyeol sits down more carefully than he would back at his own apartment, or at the dorms, or anywhere else, really. “Sure.”

“Want me to make you another Martini, or do you just want it neat?”

“Since when do you make cocktails?”

Yifan fishes a steel tumbler from his cabinet and raises it proudly. “People change, Chanyeol.”

It’s supposed to be ironic, but it just rings a little bit too true.

“Okay, then. Impress me.”

Yifan does. His movements are swift, professional, and the drink tastes excellent, although that might have to do more with the quality of the liquor than Yifan’s talent. Yifan is still drinking Whiskey, on the rocks this time. He sits down on the couch as well, leaving a cushion between him and Chanyeol, legs a little spread, elbow resting on his knee. He looks cool in an artificial, cultivated kind of way; it’s the kind of pose he’d strike in music videos or photoshoots. _I want to suck his dick,_ Chanyeol thinks with horrifying clarity. It shouldn’t be an issue. He hangs around attractive men all the time, that is literally his job. But here, dizzy with how surreal this entire situation is, drunk and overwhelmed, he can’t get the thought out of his head. Yifan says something and Chanyeol just stares blankly, still fixated on how easy it would be to slide to the carpeted floor, get on his knees. Yifan pokes his shin with a socked foot.

“Are you zoning out on me?”

“This is just so fucking weird,” Chanyeol says, and it’s honest even if it’s not the whole truth.

“You’re welcome to try and take a swing at me.”

Chanyeol pushes his foot with enough force to make him sway. “Is that your kink, or something?”

“No,” Yifan grins, taking a swig of his drink, clearly amused, “I’m just really into the whole concept of you making a fool of yourself.”

“I _did_ put on muscle, you know,” Chanyeol frowns, affronted. Yifan sets his glass on the coffee table with a loud clinking noise and gets up.

“Okay then gym boy, square up. What?” he raises his eyebrows when Chanyeol just gives him his most dubious look, “Maybe we can work out our issues like that. Come on.”

“You want me to fight you in the middle of your living room at two in the morning,” Chanyeol enunciates slowly, just to be sure. Yifan just raises his guard exaggeratedly, punches the air for show. “Whatever the fuck,” Chanyeol mutters to himself before standing up to face him.

He doesn’t get a single hit in. Yifan keeps blocking him, fast and entirely too coordinated for someone with that much alcohol in him. After a few tries, he wraps his big hand around Chanyeol’s closed fist, keeping him in place. Chanyeol _whimpers._ “Let me go.”

“No,” Yifan says, maneuvering Chanyeol’s arm to the side, extended and on the edge of painful. His gaze is intent and Chanyeol gets lost in it, trying to read him. Pain shoots up his bicep, the angle unnatural.

Then Yifan kisses him.

It takes a second for Chanyeol to process what exactly is going on, his lips parting on autopilot. His brain is foggy from all that liquor, and the entire evening has been absurd enough that it would feel the same way if he were sober. Yifan finally loosens his hold on his fist, grabs him by the jaw instead and holds his face steady as he licks hungrily into Chanyeol’s mouth. He’s a good kisser, but there’s something more to it—a sort of aggressivity that wasn’t there when they were trying to _hit_ each other five minutes earlier. Chanyeol has the vague impression something is being stolen from him, but he can’t quite pinpoint what. When they break apart to catch their breaths, both of them panting, Yifan doesn’t let go of his face, fingers digging. Chanyeol looks for an explanation in his irises and finds none.

“You’re straight,” he says dumbly, just to say something, but also because _what the fuck._

“People change, Chanyeol,” Yifan says again; and it’s obviously supposed to be a joke, but Chanyeol’s head is _spinning._

“Since when—”

“Since always,” Yifan cuts him off, and then crashes their mouths together again.

This time Chanyeol is ready for it. He gives as good as he gets, clutching Yifan’s large t-shirt to bring him even closer. He takes a step back because Yifan is leaning into him, and Yifan grunts, walks them back to the couch, until the edge of it hits the back of Chanyeol’s knees. Yifan’s mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of messy kisses and light bites down the side of Chanyeol’s neck, and Chanyeol moans low in his throat. There is no hesitation in the way Yifan palms him through his jeans, in the satisfied sound he makes at the confirmation that Chanyeol is hard. Chanyeol wishes he could stop and think, or at least slow down, _talk_ about it, but his traitorous body wants otherwise, and its leading the show, his hips canting up, seeking relief. Yifan stops touching him, but it’s only for a second, only to take off his shirt. Chanyeol runs a curious hand over the hard plane of his abs, then bends down to kiss his chest, lick tentatively at a nipple. Yifan’s hand immediately goes to his hair, grip tight at the back of Chanyeol’s head. Chanyeol continues his ministrations until the nubs harden under his tongue and his fingers and Yifan is making soft, needy sounds.

“Take that off,” he orders, tugging at the hem of Chanyeol’s sweater when Chanyeol gets back up to kiss him on the mouth.

It doesn’t break the spell, but it does feel like someone suddenly opened the door and the cool breeze came in. Chanyeol shakes his head like a dog trying to get rid of water, to gather his thoughts. He _does_ take his sweater off, and the thin tank-top he was wearing under, too. Yifan goes to touch him but Chanyeol grabs his wrist.

“Are we really going to fuck?”

It sounds cruder than he intended. He just wants things to _make sense._

“Only if you want to,” Yifan says, suddenly very serious. “I have a very comfortable guest room.”

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. “Did you—did you bring me over for this?”

“No,” Yifan says immediately, and Chanyeol believes him. He’s probably an idiot, but he believes him.

“Then why—?”

Yifan rolls his eyes. “Because you’re hot, Chanyeol. All of South Korea thinks so, you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“That’s not enough,” Chanyeol counters, because it isn’t. Especially for people like them, who risk so much for every fling, it can’t be enough. Or maybe that’s just Chanyeol, who knows. But it’s also that Chanyeol isn’t just some hot stranger, even if Yifan wants to pretend that’s what’s going on here. They have history, and not the kind that makes sleeping together a logical conclusion.

Yifan’s expression softens. “Because I want you, and I can tell you want me.” Two fingers stroke Chanyeol’s cheek, the action imbued with a sort of tenderness that has no place here. Chanyeol thinks maybe he gets it, even if Yifan won’t say it. To each other, they are images of times immemorial. Yifan tastes like possibilities and crossroads, like _what if._

“Okay,” Chanyeol says, wrapping a hand around the back of Yifan’s neck, “Okay, let’s do this.” His voice sounds weird even to his own ears, his tone all wrong, the one he uses during variety shows. Like he’s about to go bungee jumping, or some shit.

Yifan turns them around so that he’s the one with his back to the sofa, and sits, taking Chanyeol down with him. He wants him in his lap, straddling him, but Chanyeol sinks to his knees instead, between his legs. A sliver of comprehension flashes through Yifan’s eyes, and he traces Chanyeol’s bottom lip with his thumb, appreciative. “You wanna suck me off? That’s what you want?” Chanyeol hides his face against the inside of his thigh, cheeks burning, the fabric of Yifan’s LV sweatpants gentle against his skin. What he wants, more than getting his mouth on Yifan, is for Yifan to be tender again, because that is how Chanyeol likes sex; but it’s not something you can ask of a hookup, especially not one as complicated as this. So he settles for Yifan’s dick in his mouth, which isn’t exactly a terrible deal.

There’s a lot Chanyeol loves about this, but knowing he’s good at it might be what really gets him going. Yifan gasps at the first lick, then flat-out moans when Chanyeol takes the head into his mouth. He runs his tongue along the slit while sucking hard, his lips forming an O, wanting to earn that sound again. He can’t slide his mouth down to the base, but he makes a ring with his fingers to cover what he cannot take in and starts bobbing his head, slurping greedily, and Yifan moans again, fingers clenching on either sides of his thighs. Chanyeol reaches out with his free hand to grab Yifan’s right, guiding it to his scalp, and Yifan gets the message, starts controlling the pace. He’s nice about it, slowing down when Chanyeol gags as Yifan’s cock hits the back of his throat, even if it’s clear by the jerking of his hips all he wants is to fuck Chanyeol’s mouth for real. Chanyeol absently thinks _next time_ before realizing what he’s implying to himself and having a small panic attack with his mouth stuffed full of cock. Yifan, thankfully, does not notice, lost in chasing his own pleasure. When he comes, it’s with a deep groan and both his hands tangled in Chanyeol’s hair. Chanyeol continues sucking until he’s swallowed everything and then pulls back, feeling raw and used and a little light-headed, his own erection now almost painful.

“Come up here,” Yifan says, hoarse, tugging. Chanyeol obeys. Yifan kisses him, thoroughly, deep. He doesn’t seem to mind the taste, or the fact Chanyeol is now shamelessly rutting against his thigh, too turned on to care. “Let me,” Yifan mumbles against his mouth, left hand clumsily trying to unzip Chanyeol’s jeans, “Let me help.”

His hand is warm wrapped around Chanyeol’s cock, large enough to cover most of it even though Chanyeol is by no means _small._ The glide isn’t the easiest, but with precome and spit it becomes better, smoother, and soon enough Yifan is stroking him steadily, fast, and Chanyeol is panting.

“I’m gonna come,” Chanyeol warns, a little strangled, and Yifan grunts “Yeah, come on.” He sounds so incredibly hot it does Chanyeol in, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave, breath coming out in short puffs against Yifan’s neck, body slumping. Yifan kisses the side of his face, and _there’s_ that tenderness again, inexplicable. Chanyeol whines, tired and intoxicated and _tired._ He’s 90% sure if he had the energy for it he’d be feeling some sort of regret, but he just _doesn’t._ He feels empty in a serene, satisfying way.

The rest of the night is a haze. At some point they must have gotten cleaned up and migrated to Yifan’s bedroom, but Chanyeol wouldn’t be able to recount how it happened. All he knows is that when his biological clock wakes him up at around six AM, he’s in Yifan’s bed, wearing a pair of Supreme boxers that definitely does not belong to him. Yifan is fast asleep on his left, his black hair tousled, the contrast with the crème pillowcases almost artistic. Chanyeol falls back asleep watching him, mentally retracing the elegant lines of his face—the slope of his nose, his eyelashes, his pink lips softly parted. Like that he looks younger, and it’s easy for Chanyeol to get lost in the implications of it, to dive into slumber and dream of alternate realities where he gets put into Exo-M instead of Jongdae, where he catches Yifan slipping out of the dorms with his suitcase.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. i guess i grossly overestimated how much i wanted to tell this particular story. as you’ll have noticed we’ve upgraded from 1/2 to uh, 2/?  
> technically if you just want to read it as the one night stand short fic it was SUPPOSED to be you can? the end of this chapter could be an end in itself. but i, personally, will be moving on to greener and uh, angstier pastures kdjkdjfhhg
> 
> ANYWAY this is now a story explicitly about the idol industry among other things, and as such it will explore themes such as homophobia, both internalized and social.  
> it’s tagged as canon compliant (this is such a weird term to use for kpop fic, WHEN will the idolverse tag take off) but it’s more... canon divergent at this point.
> 
> because i’m me and this is now longfic, it has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/5B9CCkqszSdJ2oUylxwmtY?si=X2w_h9IMSNiFmY1pMkTK9Q)! 
> 
> ahhh, one last point. im really sorry for not replying to comments before posting? i hate doing that. real life has been so time consuming and between answers to your feedback and an update i figured you guys would prefer the update. your comments keep me going. i love you. enjoy the chapter <3

**_But I got the dream, and if you believe_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Then I can take you somewhere that is pristine_ **

 

Chanyeol wakes up in the morning to the smell of eggs and bacon and fresh coffee. When he drags himself to the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket and bleary-eyed, he finds Yifan sitting at the granite counter shirtless and surrounded by paper bags with _Uber Eats_ printed all over.

“Yo,” Yifan says, mouth full. “There’s a really cool brunch place around the corner.” He motions to the takeaway containers. “Scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage. And I made coffee.”

Chanyeol just blinks a few times. The inside of his mouth tastes like an animal died in it. The prospect of food sounds simultaneously like the best and worst idea in the world.

“I’m hungover,” he declares, reaching for the pot of coffee. He knows he should drink water, and he will, but for now caffeine is a priority. That, and two Advils, as soon as he can locate his jeans.

“There’s painkillers in the bathroom,” Yifan says, like he’s reading his mind. Chanyeol mumbles a thank you before retreating again, holding his mug of coffee close to his chest.

He didn’t really have the occasion to check out Yifan’s main bathroom before. It’s ridiculous like the rest of his house, of his _stuff,_ somehow simultaneously completely out of character but also kind of… understandable. Chanyeol knows Yifan grew up poor, in a country that wasn’t his, and then moved to another country that wasn’t his, to share a dorm with twenty people. He can see the appeal of the jacuzzi and the giant waterfall shower.

He fishes two pills from a cabinet after only some minimal opening and closing of drawers, and then trots back to the kitchen. Yifan is playing on his phone.

It’s awkward. There is no other word. Chanyeol drinks his coffee in silence and wolfs down a portion of eggs and two pancakes, eyes fixed on Yifan. Yifan raises his head from his screen, meets his gaze, and smiles that private smile of his, that infuriating smile of his. He looks like he knows something Chanyeol doesn’t. Chanyeol is aware that’s not true, objectively, but that’s what it feels like.

“So what are you gonna do?” Yifan asks, and for a second Chanyeol panics, _about what?_ Then he realizes Yifan is just inquiring about his vacation plans.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, and he’s being truthful. “I downloaded a guide on my Kindle. Stupid tourist shit, probably.”

Yifan grins. “Like the Hollywood sign.”

“Stop acting like a local,” Chanyeol sighs, “You don’t even really live here.”

Yifan’s smile doesn’t falter. “I can drive you.” A pause, most likely for effect. “In like, a yellow coupe. For like, the full experience.”

It’s not a real offer, obviously. For so many reasons. Chanyeol’s life is nothing but a succession of _be careful,_ of _don’t do this,_ of _you can’t let them see._ But also, Yifan has other things to do. This, whatever it was, it was a one-time thing, an anomaly. It doesn’t mean they’re—friends. It doesn’t mean Yifan is _forgiven,_ it doesn’t mean _Yifan_ wants anything to do with Chanyeol either.

 _He bought you breakfast,_ the traitorous tiny voice inside Chanyeol’s brain pipes up. _He didn’t kick you out._

Which means nothing. Yifan is an asshole, but not that kind of asshole, and he’s a celebrity, and he was an idol. He wouldn’t expose Chanyeol to that sort of risk, and he wouldn’t let the paparazzi catch a man doing the walk of shame around his house either. It means nothing.

It means something, maybe. Their hands touch when Chanyeol opens the fridge to take out milk for his coffee and Yifan tries to reach for the silverware drawer behind him at the same time. Chanyeol’s throat is suddenly dry. Yifan’s fingers curl around his wrist.

It’s so easy, now. He knows the taste of Yifan’s moans. He knows that he’s sensitive right behind the ear. Yifan presses him against the stainless steel fridge and kisses him, mellow, slow. A good morning kiss.

Then he drops to his knees, noses at Chanyeol’s boxers, and all Chanyeol can do is splutter, _what are you doing—_

“Returning the favor,” Yifan smirks.

And he does. Sucks him to full hardness, swallows most of him down enthusiastically, hollows his cheeks and hums. Chanyeol’s legs tremble, and he looks for purchase behind him but the fridge door is sleek and slippery. He settles for one hand in Yifan’s hair and reaches out blindly for the counter with his other hand. Doesn’t tighten his grip, lets Yifan go at his own pace. It’s good anyway. It’s _good._ It’s warm and wet and _tight_ and Chanyeol doesn’t dare look down for more than a second, because Yifan looks sinfully good, looks straight out of Chanyeol’s teenage daydreams. When they were trainees, and Yifan already looked unbearably good, unfairly _pretty_ and Chanyeol was just a _boy._ Was just a boy who liked other boys, who looked at other boys and knew he was not supposed to, but hungered for—anything, really. Anything.

It hadn’t been just Yifan, back then. Chanyeol always had had a vast imagination. He’d been infatuated with Junmyeon to the point where _Junmyeon_ himself had noticed. Zitao, too. Zitao was easy to want, revelled in the attention. And Jongin. _Taemin._ Dancers, mainly, but not only. Chanyeol liked thinking of strong arms, pretty faces, pink lips. Pink lips stretched around his cock—and that fantasy had starred Yifan way too often.

And now he has the real thing, except not really, not _exactly,_ because he doesn’t think the Yifan from then would have gotten on his knees for Chanyeol.

Yifan lets Chanyeol’s dick slip out of his mouth with a loud _pop,_ the filthiest sound. The head drags against his bottom lip as he retreats, leaves a streak of precome there, shiny, glistening. Flames lick the base of Chanyeol’s spine, his want almost maddening. His thoughts are a blur of _no, come back,_ and _more more more._ When Yifan stands back up, pushes his own shorts down and spits in his hand before wrapping it around them both, the sigh of relief that escapes Chanyeol’s mouth is almost a sob.

Later, when they’re laying in bed—not touching, both staring at the ceiling, chests heaving—and Yifan has made him come one more time, Chanyeol dares to ask, “Are we going to talk about it?”

Yifan takes a few seconds to reply. “Nah.”

“I really feel like we should talk about it,” Chanyeol insists.

Yifan rolls on his side to face him. Chanyeol turns his head towards him. “Talk, then.”

Chanyeol’s brain goes into overdrive. He has so _much_ to say. _You left without telling me,_ he thinks but doesn’t let out. _I understand why you left, but not why—_

“What are we doing? Yifan, what are we _doing?_ We were drunk last night.” But not today, not today. Yifan put his mouth on Chanyeol fully sober. Willing and so fucking hungry for it, hands roaming, hands _claiming;_ and the way he had dragged Chanyeol to his bedroom to get one last orgasm out of him, the pure, unadulterated _need,_ fingers curled around Chanyeol’s nape—

“We’re fucking, Chanyeol,” Yifan says, slowly, the tone Jongin takes sometimes when explaining something to his niece. It’s condescending, really, because Chanyeol is an _adult,_ and Yifan is avoiding the real question.

“Thanks, I’ve had sex before. You know what I mean.”

Yifan looks away. “I don’t know. I don’t really—with men, it has to be someone I can trust, so I don’t. It’s been a while, I guess.”

Chanyeol’s ribs hurt a little, the sort of stabbing pain that comes from running without warm-up. He doesn’t seek Yifan’s eyes when he replies. “So you figured you’d try with me, because I’m ideal, right? Even more to lose than you do.”

In his peripheral vision, he can still see Yifan wince. “I guess? I didn’t lie, when you asked—I didn’t plan this.”

Chanyeol closes his eyes. Just an instant, and then he pushes himself off the mattress. “I think I’m gonna go.”

“Chanyeol,” Yifan starts, but he obviously doesn’t actually have anything to add. “Okay,” he finishes lamely. “I can call you an Uber, or—”

“I have a phone, Kris,” Chanyeol interrupts him. “But thank you.”

Yifan gets off the bed too. He has that look on his face, the one he used to wear a lot during trainee days, and the months following debut; like he has something to say, something important, but he can’t open his mouth. Jongdae had tried to explain it to Chanyeol once. _He’s not like you. He’s the opposite, actually._ Chanyeol didn’t really understand, back then. He knows better now. He knows better, but it doesn’t make the hollow feeling in his gut go away, so it doesn’t matter.

“Don’t,” Yifan says, and Chanyeol turns around, thinks, maybe, time really does change people. “Don’t use the front door. Please.” Or maybe not.

He doesn’t use the front door. He even walks a block away from Yifan’s house before calling his Lyft ride. Chanyeol is nice like that, sometimes.

 

He’s on Hollywood Boulevard, sunglasses on his nose even though it's dark outside like an asshole, when his phone pings. It’s the ringtone he has set for Instagram, and he wouldn’t check immediately normally, but lately Baekhyun has been in the habit of misplacing his phone and DMing Chanyeol through the desktop version to ask him to ring him.

It’s not Baekhyun. It’s a private message from an account he doesn’t follow, but it’s a verified user, so it hasn’t been filtered. **_@kriswu_** , the header reads. Chanyeol closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath.

_im sorry for earlier. let me take you out to dinner_

In English, all lowercase. Classic. _Fuck off,_ Chanyeol shoots back in Pinyin, but he’s smiling, can’t help it. Yifan gets the message—if Chanyeol meant it, he would have replied in Korean. _how do u feel about sushi,_ comes barely thirty seconds later.

Chanyeol looks around him. It’s seven in the evening. There are tourists everywhere, and although he thankfully hasn’t been recognized, the crowd is making him feel a little jittery, on the verge of actually anxious. He could go back to his hotel and eat there, alone, in front of the TV.

 _Let’s order in,_ he types, switching his keyboard back to Hangul. Echoing Yifan’s remark from the other night, he adds, _you never know._

Yifan sends him a picture of a delivery menu. Chanyeol’s stomach does a weird loop. He tells himself it’s hunger.

 

They don’t touch the food. Yifan is on him the moment Chanyeol closes the door behind him, pushing him against the wall, pressing Chanyeol’s wrists together above his head with one hand. His mouth is ravenous, claiming Chanyeol’s roughly, parting his lips and licking his way in, demanding access.

“God, I want to fuck you,” he grunts, then kisses Chanyeol again, and again. Chanyeol frees one hand, trails his fingers along Yifan’s jawline, then lower; traces his Adam’s apple, the zipper of his hoodie, his pecs, the bulge in his jeans.

“Fuck me, then,” he breathes out, and it comes out much more wanton than he intended, much more open, and raw. He vaguely remembers being mad at Yifan in the morning. He knows he came back here so they could _talk,_ finally, but it doesn’t matter much, at the moment. He feels as drunk as he had been the night before, even if the alcohol percentage in his blood at this point is definitely zero. It’s never been this way with anyone before, this—this compulsion, this fever. It doesn’t make sense. He lived with Yifan for _years_ without feeling anything other than fleeting attraction for him.

In Yifan’s bedroom for the second time in one day, Chanyeol finds himself on his back, Yifan kneeling between his legs, opening him up dutifully on two fingers. Every once in a while he bends down to kiss him, slow and dirty, like he can’t help himself.

“You look good,” Yifan says, adding a third finger, curling them upwards, causing Chanyeol to gasp. They’re both songwriters, Chanyeol thinks dazedly. And yet words don’t seem to come easy.

Chanyeol doesn’t want to think anymore.

“Get in me,” he urges, nails digging into Yifan’s forearm, trying to get him to—to _move,_ to go faster, anything. “I’m ready, come on.”

“You’re not,” Yifan says, voice firm. Chanyeol wants to say it’s presumptuous, but, well. He’s had Yifan’s dick in his mouth. Instead, how matter-of-fact he is about it, it’s just. It’s hot.

“I don’t care,” Chanyeol groans. “I want to still feel you tomorrow. Come _on.”_

“No,” Yifan says again. “You’re a dancer. I remember—just be patient.”

When Yifan finally pulls out his fingers and reaches for a condom on his bedside table, Chanyeol is a mess, legs trembling and cock leaking and bite marks red on his knuckles from having tried to muffle his own moans.

“How do you want to do this?” Yifan asks. Chanyeol considers his options. He wants—he wants a lot. He wants to ride Yifan. He wants to just stay right where he is, splayed on this large mattress, and let Yifan _take_ him. He wants…

Yifan seems to sense his hesitation. “On your hands and knees, then,” he says softly, and Chanyeol is grateful.

So Yifan fucks him from behind, an arm wrapped around Chanyeol’s middle to hold him steady when his arms give out, Yifan thrusting hard and fast into him. At some point Chanyeol stops trying to control what’s coming out of his mouth, and his breathy little _ah_ s increase in both volume and frequency. Then Yifan hauls him up, his back now pressed to Yifan’s chest, and the angle changes, the head of Yifan’s cock methodically nailing his prostate, and Chanyeol lets out a strangled moan that quickly turns into a choked, silent shout. He’s so close, his cock so hard it’s almost painful, the edges of his vision blurring. Breathing heavily, he wraps a hand around himself and starts stroking, the movement automatic, urgent.

“That’s it, baby,” Yifan says, breath hot on the back of his neck. _Baby,_ Chanyeol notices through the haze of his lust-addled mind. “That’s it, touch yourself.” His tone is strained, the words coming out hoarse, fractured. Chanyeol turns his head, reaches behind blindly with his free hand to bury his fingers in Yifan’s hair, tug him closer. They kiss open-mouthed and sloppy, more sharing air than anything else. Then Yifan covers Chanyeol’s hand with his own, and that coupled with how Yifan is still pounding his ass, _God,_ splitting him open in the best way, all the nerves endings in his body on _fire,_ it doesn’t take much longer for Chanyeol to spill, swearing. His voice breaks, and Yifan places a myriad of small kisses on his shoulder blades, hips snapping up now faster and faster, fucking Chanyeol through his orgasm.

“Ah, fuck,” Yifan grunts, fingers clutching where he’s still holding Chanyeol up, tight enough to bruise. “Fuck, _fuck,_ Chanyeol—”

When he comes Chanyeol feels him pulse, hot, even with the condom. It’s unexpectedly nice. It’s been a long, long time since he’s let someone top him.

They collapse back on the bed, Yifan a pleasant, reassuring weight on him. When he pulls out Chanyeol feels empty, almost uneasy for a second, yearning for contact, for that feeling of _fullness_ back. But Yifan throws the tied condom into the trash on the other side of the room from where he’s sitting on the bed, and then he lays back down, body molded to Chanyeol’s. And it’s good. It’s warm, and it’s—good.

 _Lord,_ the small, annoying voice in Chanyeol’s brain chimes in, _you’re so starved for affection._

“I’m sorry,” Yifan says into Chanyeol’s shoulder.

“Mmh? For what?”

Yifan huffs incredulously. It tickles. “This morning. That was… I could have handled that better.” Chanyeol can _hear_ the grimace in his voice.

“It’s okay,” he says without thinking. Which, no. No, it’s not okay. Everything is _messy_ and Yifan hurt his feelings. Not just in the morning.

“Did I fuck you stupid?” Yifan chuckles.

“Yes,” Chanyeol replies, honestly. “I’m too tired to be mad right now. Don’t apologize now, it’s cheating.”

“Okay,” Yifan says. He plants a soft kiss to Chanyeol’s nape. Chanyeol hates the way it makes him feel, suddenly. A shiver runs down his spine. Yifan misinterprets it, reaches for his comforter and covers them both. “Sleep, now.”

And Chanyeol wants to say something, add something, but…

 

Chanyeol wakes up abruptly in the middle of the night. Beside him Yifan stirs, but he does not wake. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand says 03:27. Chanyeol pushes himself up into seated position, stretches his arms with a yawn, grimaces at the uncomfortable feeling of dried come on his belly. He gets up as silently as he can and paddles to the bathroom, runs some water over a small towel to clean himself. He’d take a shower, but he doesn’t want to push it. Yifan used to be a light sleeper, when they were all living together, and he doesn’t think that has changed.

He grabs his iPhone from the pocket of his pants on the floor before slowly walking out of the room, careful not to bump into anything in the darkness. Once he’s passed the threshold he unlocks his screen, the backlight murderous to his poor sleepy eyes, making him blink furiously. There are a few texts from Baekhyun, a missed call from Yura, and one comment notification—Junmyeon posted something under Chanyeol’s last Instagram post. Chanyeol goes to like it, grinning reflexively. It’s already afternoon in Korea, so he shoots his sister a message, although he isn’t worried. Yura prefers calling to texting, even for the smallest things. If it was a real emergency, she would have at least left a voicemail.

Baekhyun’s last KKT reads _facetime me >< _

_I can’t,_ Chanyeol texts back. He regrets it the moment he presses send. It’s the middle of the night, he could have easily waited until the morning to reply. Now Baekhyun is going to be curious about why Chanyeol, supposedly alone back at his hotel, is not only awake, but in a situation where he cannot call. Sure enough, Baekhyun sends him a row of question marks. Chanyeol puts his phone down, screen facing kitchen counter, sighing.

“Hey.” Yifan’s voice comes unexpected, shaking Chanyeol out of his tired thoughts, almost making him jolt.

“Shit,” he turns to face him, “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Yifan smiles. It’s a sleepy, genuine, tiny smile; the kind of smile Chanyeol hasn’t seen in so long it hurts suddenly, destabilizing him. He’s thrown back to trainee days, when Yifan still went by Kevin and didn’t know a lick of Korean.

“I was hungry,” Chanyeol says. He means it as an excuse, but his stomach rumbles the moment the words pass his lips and he realizes it’s actually probably what woke him up.

“Ah, shit,” Yifan swears, “The sushi.”

“What?”

Yifan _blushes._ Under the moonlight entering from the large windows, he’s simultaneously breathtakingly beautiful and horribly _endearing._ “We, uh, the sushi. We never got to it and I, I forgot, and we left the box outside.” He grabs the black paper bag from the table. “Gonna have to throw it away,” he finishes sadly. “We could order pizza, but that’s gonna take half an hour. I think I have instant noodles?”

Chanyeol’s chest swells, something akin to longing. He doesn’t—he doesn’t get _why._ “Noodles are fine,” he says, because Yifan is staring expectantly. His voice comes out a little strained.

So at four in the morning, they sit opposite each other across the kitchen island, Chanyeol buck naked, the stool cold against his ass; Yifan wearing nothing but a long orange t-shirt with faded blue writing on it. The ramen is shrimp flavored, the cheap, western convenience store kind. It’s okay, Chanyeol didn’t really come to Yifan’s place for the cuisine anyway.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Yifan says suddenly.

Chanyeol slurps down what remains in his bowl before answering, putting his chopsticks down. “You mean, in general?”

“No,” Yifan shakes his head. “I’m actually, ha, it’s funny. If you had asked a few years ago, I would—I would have said that, too. But no. For once my life is exactly as I want it. I have things under control, mostly.”

“Then?”

“I meant with you.”

“Oh,” Chanyeol says.

“You asked, in the morning. Or, yesterday, I guess. Time is weird.” He chortles, and _ah,_ it’s back, the strange fullness in Chanyeol’s sternum. “The answer is I don’t know. I’m sorry I—I don’t know. That I said what I said.”

“It’s okay,” Chanyeol finds himself saying again. Is it? “I think we just, ah, fell into it. I don’t know either. It wasn’t fair to expect you to have an answer when I don’t.” He wishes he hadn’t eaten so fast. He could use the excuse of wanting to take a bite to avoid the empty, awkward silence. “I leave in three days,” he continues when it becomes clear Yifan isn’t going to talk. “Let’s just..” It’s stupid, stupid and risky and nonsensical, but Chanyeol wants something to call his own. Just for a little, tinsy while, he wants something that is completely his, something crazy, something no one knows about, not even his members, _certainly_ not his manager. “Let’s just stop pretending for these three days. Let’s not think about it.”

“Okay,” Yifan says, very quietly. And God, who is Chanyeol kidding. It’s because he _wants._ He’s saying this, he’s doing this because he _wants,_ and he hasn’t indulged in anything like this in so long. And three days, it can’t hurt, right? Three days on the other side of the world, in a city where people don’t know him, in a city where his face isn’t plastered on billboards?

“Let’s go back to bed,” Yifan says, picking up both his bowl and Chanyeol’s, depositing them in the sink.

The dip of the mattress when he settles down next to Chanyeol, the warmth of his body, the electrifying contact of his skin, it’s—it’s a glimpse at another life, Chanyeol realizes, stomach in knots, lump in his throat. A life where Chanyeol falls asleep every night with another man in his bed. A life where strangers don’t know his name.

“Goodnight, Chanyeol,” Yifan says. Chanyeol looks for his hand in the darkness. Yifan’s fingertips touch his, and then his arm is slung over Chanyeol’s chest, bringing him closer.

“Goodnight,” Chanyeol says finally, so low and small he doesn’t think Yifan hears it.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream about the exos with me on [here](http://twitter.com/yifanapologist)! sometimes i can even be funny


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